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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885460">Welcome to Hogwarts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle'>gaytriangle</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/madasahatter'>madasahatter (gaytriangle)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Welcome to Night Vale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Intern Death, Crossovers &amp; Fandom Fusions, Gen, Hijinks &amp; Shenanigans, Is it character death if you’re erased from time, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Maybe there’s plot. Maybe there’s a giant squid in a small Scottish lake. Who knows., One Shot Collection, Slice of Life, Typical Night Vale Weirdness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:41:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,987</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/madasahatter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And now: a yearning to go somewhere you’ve never been, the crackle of a warm fire in an empty room, and the lingering scent of treacle. Welcome to Hogwarts. </p>
<p>OR: in a world with man eating spiders in the forest, a giant snake in the plumbing, and dead students haunting the loo, can anyone honestly explain why WOULDN’T there be a radio station run by a chronologically challenged sixth year to report on the nonsense?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. September First, 1991.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The radio sits in the corner of the Great Hall, under four huge hourglasses. It is antique, by muggle standards. It is antique, by magical standards. No two people see the same radio, but all of them have the perception of it as very, very old. No one touches it, or acknowledges it with anything other than sidelong glances. Oh, they’re dared to often enough, but even the greenest of green children still wet behind the ears can feel it. Touching this radio is like grabbing a livewire, like poking a bear, like giving a two finger salute to the fae:it is the last free action you will ever take. Touching this radio, you see, brings you to the attention of Lee Jordan. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lee Jordan’s voice streams out of the radio once a day, everyday. Sometimes over breakfast, sometimes in the middle of classes, and occasionally in the dead of night. He never misses a broadcast. It is the solemn belief of every member of the staff table, independently, that they will run if Lee Jordan misses a broadcast. Some say he’d continue broadcasting out even if Hogwarts was nothing but a broken shell, an empty field. Some say he already has. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">His voice is not loud, but neither is it quiet. There’s a radio in every room, but he always sounds like he’s speaking from right behind you, and a little bit to the left. Interspersed with crackle and the odd whine, his voice has no magical properties at all, but to make itself heard.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Right now, for example, Lee Jordan’s voice swirls out of the radio in the corner of the Great Hall, and hundreds of children fall silent in a wave of acknowledgement. Even the new students, even the muggleborns, even the ghosts know one simple truth: you do not interrupt a Community Radio Host. This has been known for longer than Hogwarts had any concept of radio or, indeed, community. Lee Jordan’s voice has an audible grin, and in the hall so silent it should have been eerie, his voice is the crackling of a fire and the taste of home. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">
    <em>A boy has come to Hogwarts today, listeners. A boy, and a girl, and a child without gender, and another, and another. Welcome home, witches and wizards and magical beasts of all persuasions. It is good, to see you again. </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Like always, I’d like to open this feast with a quick round of Hey There, Lee! Do you have a question for me? Look to the sky and weep, and I will know what words you’ve been trying to say though the loud noise of sobs and the constrictions of paranoid, vengeful silence. And, just for the first years, a special treat: all you need to do to ask me a question is think of one, and prick your finger with the fork to your left. Don’t worry! I’ll hear it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Percy Weasley - Hey there Percy! - wants to know the questions on his OWLs. Naughty naughty Percy! The secrets of birds are entirely their own. I can say that Errol wishes you wrote to your mother more often. He rather likes you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Hestia Carrow - Hey there Hestia! - wishes for her question to be anonymous. Alright Hestia! The next night you go to sleep you will dream one minute of me, explaining your question. It’s a very fascinating one, and I can’t say how long it’ll take to get through all of it. Werewolves, yknow? Or. Well. You don’t know. Not yet. Anyway, since you’ll be getting only one minute of sleep a night, I’d recommend investing in an alarm clock. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Hermione Granger - Hey there Hermione! - wants to know how I’m doing what I’m doing. You’re new at this, Hermione, so I won’t answer. The next time you ask me, I’ll tell you everything, and Gryffindor will be short a first year. Won’t be the first time, nor the last, but no one can say I didn’t warn you. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Professor Kettleburn - Hey there Silvanus! - wants to know which limb he’ll lose this year. He’s feeling like a foot, but I think fingers are more likely. Those fire crabs get awfully bitey in the winter - good luck, professor! And please, remember my offer: any limbs you give to me will ensure that no others are misplaced, ever again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">This has been tonight’s segment of Hey There Lee! The community calendar is quite barren, what with me not having an intern yet and having to psychically check each of you out for interesting events all on my own. Snogging sessions will start on Wednesday, in the usual places. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">On Friday, something lost will be hidden. On Friday, something hidden will remain lost. On Friday, any lost pens will become hidden from you forever. I’d recommend looking for them immediately. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">McGonagall’s collection of experimental mice will be staging a revolt on Sunday, but I don’t think it’s worth attending. Mrs Norris plans to spend Sunday working on her cardio, you see, so it’s likely to be a very short revolt. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Oh, and don’t forget! Quidditch tryouts are next Saturday at two. For which house, you ask? All of them! Next Saturday the quidditch pitch will be feeling a little moody, and split itself into four temporally unique pitches, so each house can host tryouts without any worry of prying eyes. Other than mine, of course, and the elves, and the giant squid that lives in the lake and hungers for e’er and e’er. Like I said, nothing to worry about. So long as you’re out by dark, of course. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">This has been the community calendar. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Listeners, there are few things in life you can depend on. One day you’re eleven, the next twelve, thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and sixteen and sixteen all passing in a blur. Time is fickle. Life is a puzzle with ten missing pieces. Memory is a con artist, seducing you into ignoring how unreliable she is. There is so little you can depend on. But do not forget this, listeners: you can depend on friends, on bread, and on community radio. I’ll be back tomorrow to introduce my very first intern of 1991. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Goodnight, Hogwarts. Goodnight. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. September Second - October First, 1991: To the Family and Friends of Intern Sally-Ann...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Right before Harry Potter, in 1991, Sally-Anne Perks is sorted into Hufflepuff. </p>
<p>Right before Harry Potter, in 1996, the Patil twins go into their OWL exams, no Perks girl in sight.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the middle of the first Potions lecture of the year, Gryffindor and Slytherin firsties, when Professor Snape had just taken one menacing step closer to Harry Potter, there was a croak. A frog on a shelf opened its mouth, and croaked, and then a theme tune began to flow out. Snape swept back to his desk and flicked his wand in one movement, dismissing the cauldrons on the desks and the instructions on the board. The frog let out one more mournful <em>ribbit </em>before a familiar voice rang out. “There is no light in darkness. There is no darkness in light. Words have meaning, and those meanings are static. Welcome to Hogwarts.”</p>
<p>“This is a story about us,” said the voice, and several heads in the classroom looked round with alarm as though the radio host was going to move through the walls and gobble them up. This was foolish; Lee would have need of at least some of them as interns, after all, and thus there were many other creatures whose maws should be more worrisome. “We are not so different! I am Lee Jordan, sixth year, sixteen years old. I’ve been sixteen years old for... well... longer than you have! You are not sixteen, yet. You are still eleven. You are still a first year, newly sorted, still a little scared.</p>
<p>You are an intern,” said the voice, with all the gravitas it could. (Significantly more than most sixteen-year-olds.)</p>
<p>“Here is another similarity! I run the intern programme, and you’re its’ newest member. You know this, of course. When you woke up this morning, the grim-faced prefect Azalea Karasu stood over you, half your dorm already awake, and told you you had to go to breakfast. You were annoyed; Hogwarts is vast, maybe even endless, and you knew sleep was going to be a good friend, but Karasu insisted.</p>
<p>The intern is chosen, she told you, on the first morning in Hogwarts. You asked what they were interning for, but she had already moved on to the next bed, so you tied your honey and black tie on blearily and shuffled up to see if you could snag some rashers or maybe a bit of toast. We differ here; I am a consummate Gryffindor, bravely making sure my interns report from even the most dangerous of situations. Also, I don’t eat pork,” the voice added as an afterthought. It prompted furious debate about what <em>else </em>Lee might not eat, and if perhaps he <em>didn’t </em>devour failing interns whole. Lees’ offhand comments often spurred furious debate; his near sole devotion to wheat and wheat-byproducts had as of yet only been noticed by a set of Gryffindor twins with devious goals in mind.</p>
<p>“You went up to the Great Hall, and sat down, wondering if the food magically appeared or if you had to ask. Your plate was empty, even as the rest of the table was chock-a-block with delicious smells and even more wonderous sights. This is the moment a story about you became a story about us; this is the moment a purple envelope blinked into existence in front of you.</p>
<p>Surprise!</p>
<p>It was a very nice envelope; the first one of the year always is. Later, their creation will be rushed. Later, I’ll have to make multiple in a span of hours, and there simply won’t be time to ensure the ink has fully dried. Some of my surviving interns are forever stained with it, the coppery scent of my red ink following them everywhere whether they want to or not. Not yours, though! The first envelope of the year is always perfectly purple, a royal colour, with swirls of gold in the inhumanly large violet iris of the eye which stares and stares and stares from its place as a seal. By the time you’ve blinked, the emblem will appear on all your ties and scarves and left socks. It marks you as Intern, the first Intern of 1991. You can keep the envelope, if you like. It’s bare except for one line:</p>
<p>Welcome, Sally-Anne Perks.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hi boss! This is Intern Sally-Anne reporting live from Quidditch tryouts. You’re sure I can’t go by Sally?”</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>“It’s just- it seems strange, is all. Doesn’t seem real yet.”</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>“I know nothing can be proven real outside of our own perceptions, and that even those can be manipulated by the vague yet menacing figures at the edge of my vision. Yes, I suppose it is strange that no one talks about the lake horror.” Her voice rises, speeds up. “That isn’t very comforting, boss!” </p>
<p>...</p>
<p>A laugh, shaky but very much there.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>“Alright. Okay. This is Intern Sally-Anne, reporting live from Quidditch tryouts!”</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Much later, and much quieter, with the mobile broadcasting unit quietly tearing strips off the fish she had bought from the mermaids (her own skills not quite sufficient for its cavernous appetite) and not a soul to hear: “Thanks, Lee.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey Lee! There’s coffee on your desk, and I have the latest reports on the feeding habits of the staircases. It looks like they’re on a bit of a Ravenclaw kick right now - anything else you need before Charms?” </p>
<p>A cheerful but dismissive voice rings out, with the odd crackling of static even though they stand in the same room. It reminds her of nothing more than her mums’ old tapes, presenters from decades long past. “Nah. Good work out there, intern!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lee! Next time you send Moaning Myrtle her horoscope, can you warn me? The<em> entire bathroom</em> was covered in arcane runes meant to summon her true love. It took fifteen minutes to break them!”</p>
<p>“Did you get pictures?”</p>
<p>There was the sudden slap! of a muggle shoe connecting with a forehead, and the quick rustle of fabric that suggested the bending to grasp at the other. Lee extended his hands in a pacifying gesture.</p>
<p>“Okay! Okay, I’m sorry. Here, take some of my cake. House elves baked it for my birthday next week. I’m turning sixteen.”</p>
<p>The grabbing of a shoe, and the sneaky cutting of a rather large slice. Stomping to the doorway. Rocking back and forth on her heels in indecision, then the interns voice rushing out all at once. “I’ll make you something if you call me by my name.”</p>
<p>A shark like grin that looms in the darkness; one of the radio hosts most recognisable features, one left behind quite often as he astral projected onwards. “I’d be honoured, Sally Anne.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey Lee! I’ll be in to celebrate in just a minute; got one more piece of work to do. Take this, but don’t eat it without me!”</p>
<p>A cupcake is left on his desk. Lee smiles, but does not look up. Time is strange, right now, and he is unsure why; what a story it’ll be to find out!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lee Jordan reaches out for the warm cups of coffee that have been appearing just to his left as often as he needed them. His intern had been working on her teleportation; it had been going surprisingly well, and he would definitely mention it in her final report. Instead, his hand brushes against familiar parchment; royal purple, with a glittering gold eye in the centre.</p>
<p>He freezes, then, and takes it in: the supplies to nominate a new intern are sitting where his coffee should be, underneath a cupcake with cheerful blueberry icing that smells of fetid rot. He sighs, and reaches for his microphone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is late, when the radio crackles on. An undercurrent of electric fear had been present in Hogwarts since late afternoon, when it had become clear that <em>something</em> was preventing Lee’s broadcast. If his intern were there, she would have laughed in the face of it. She had become so brave. It was not enough.</p>
<p>“It is that time of year again. In the space between one class and another, one breath and another, one heartbeat and then no others, we have lost one of our own. I cannot tell you how she died. I can only tell you her name because of the blood oath she swore on her first morning in the castle. I can tell you she was Intern Sally-Anne Perks, that she wrote her name in precise letters, and that she lasted twenty-nine days as Intern. I do not know her House, her personality, her fears or hopes or dreams; whether she had a family, or friends, or nothing in the world but her internship. This is a short broadcast, listeners. She had a short life. As I let you go into the cold and unforgiving night, think on this:</p>
<p>Who was Sally-Anne Perks?</p>
<p>What was Sally-Anne Perks?</p>
<p>What was she doing that caused her untimely exit from the intern programme and, indeed, reality?”</p>
<p>A pause. This was not in and of itself unusual; in live reports from unimaginable horrors, after all, it would be foolish to expect enough breath control and distance to allow for constant conversation. Rarely, though, did Lee himself struggle for words or breath or anything much at all. His voice, when it returned, was the smooth depth of an underwater trench, clear and haunting.</p>
<p>“Sometimes the world appears vast, and oppressive,” he continued at last. “It is; this is a sign your visual organs are functioning correctly. Rejoice in the perception of that creeping shadow cast by no one on the third floor, the sallow, stretched taught skin of the DADA professor and his ever-present smell of rot, in the doors that are not doors beckoning you. You’re able to perceive all these things. Good for you!</p>
<p>They show you that the world is vast, maybe even endless, and that no matter how hard you try you cannot understand it all. Not even I can. And that’s okay. Listeners, I do not remember Sally-Anne Perks. Out there, maybe none of you do. Maybe there’s a half-finished scarf you were making for a reason now lost to you, maybe there’s a guest bedroom filled with the love and life of no one you know, maybe there’s a hole in your heart that wasn’t there before.”</p>
<p>Another pause; a Gryffindor reaches for the dials of the common room radio to see if the broadcast had been interrupted, only to have her hands slapped away and several nasty words hurled at her. The radio host notices this, but only abstractly; his voice continues on as ever. “Maybe there isn’t.</p>
<p>Maybe Sally Anne Perks passed through life without leaving a single memory behind in the minds of those that knew her. Maybe the only thing to show she ever existed is her intern oath, right here, lettering dark with wet mold and the faint smell of blueberries.</p>
<p>I do not know. None of us do. But as we carry on with our day to day lives, after Sally-Anne has left us and after the after, maybe you’ll feel a little sad, for no reason at all. Maybe, without you even knowing, you’ll miss the girl that was Sally-Anne Perks.”</p>
<p>A sigh, this time. The rustle of hands against hair, adjusting position, as though the uncomfortable air around the radio host could be adjusted as easily as his corporeal form could. “There is a cupcake on my desk, listeners, that neither I nor the house elves baked. There is a note pinned to the wrapper, saying that the baker has just gone to get one final thing, and then they’ll be ready to celebrate. There is a hole in my heart where someone used to be.</p>
<p>The world is a little bit darker, listeners, without Sally-Anne Perks. But the world always gets darker, when we forget to hold on to eachother.</p>
<p>Goodnight, Hogwarts, goodnight.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was the last of the prompts I had prepped for this story, posted because of the lovely comments I got in the last week. It’s also the last chronological chapter; I think next time I’ll go back a bit, explore either the Riddle or Marauder era. Thoughts and prompts welcome!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is inspired by a Reddit thread.</p>
<p>This is inspired by the cheerful approval of my beta reader from Spoonful of Sugar and co-author from Destiny is Calling, definately_not_a_cat. </p>
<p>This is inspired by prompts that I hope to receive more of, because I’m good at vibes but not quite as good at concepts.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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